


Of Braids

by Saraste



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Erebor Reclaimed, Angst, Angstingshield, Beard Braiding, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Grief/Mourning, Hair Braiding, M/M, Partial Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 12:58:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12343146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraste/pseuds/Saraste
Summary: After leaving on a Quest, Bilbo learns the art of braiding, yet there was one braid never expected to learn.





	Of Braids

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd. I was thinking about writing nwalin this week, my muse gave me this instead, for some reason.

There was a time when Bilbo had never thought that he would ever face the need of having to learn braiding.

 

Of course, he had always known what a braid was, growing up in the Shire and seeing little hobbit lasses with a pair of plaits or a single one, bound with bright ribbons, floating after them as they ran on green fields, he would have been blind to miss them. In adulthood Bilbo had paid some attention to the intricate wedding styles of excitable young brides, those braids were invariably festooned with flowers, as all weddings always took place in the summer.

 

The aforementioned had been the extent of Bilbo’s knowledge as good-wives, matrons and matriarchs invariably adopted hairstyles which didn't involve braids, apart from Tooks, and Bilbo had known quite early on that he wouldn’t need to braid a lass of his own when their mother was busy.

 

So Bilbo opening the door to find a pair of young dwarves with braids in their  _ beards,  _ of all places, was a bit of a shock, as one might imagine. But as the journey, the adventure of a Quest Bilbo had been dragged onto, progressed, he grew more and more accustomed to the often so odd ways of his traveling companions. And he might have developed a fondness, a foolish attachment, along the way.

 

There seemed to exist quite a bit of secrecy regarding the braiding of dwarven hair or beards, which Bilbo took in his stride, not getting offended of being excluded. Of course, there had been no reason at all for him to learn, none at all, for he was no relation or spouse, which seemed to be the only accepted persons to perform the braiding of another dwarfs hair. Even if he had been allowed to  _ touch _ , although always out of sight if not sound, of the other’s. And that...

 

Yet, through confessions and declarations, through hardship and a battle missed through unconsciousness, Bilbo did indeed find himself in the position of needing to learn, because he was allowed.  _ Expected to learn and practise. _

 

_ * _

 

_ ‘Am I doing this right?’ he asked, fingers a bit fumbling, passing a section of grey-streaked dark hair over another. Big fingers touched the pattern. Bilbo’s heart made him feel young again. _

 

_ ‘It's perfect,’ Thorin rumbled. _

 

_ They are late from the official event but the braids are as perfect as can be, and it’s more the affection, rather than the skill, which is important here, for they are braids of love and commitment. _

 

*

 

Bilbo stands next to a low table now, hands shaking a little as he continues to braid in the new pattern with practised fingers. This is a braid he never thought that he would come to braid. There are no big hands to come up to check, no rumbling voice to reassure him, not this time. The silence of the room feels oppressing, the stone walls and floors harsh and unyielding, the Mountain empty. He swallows thickly as he affixes the beads, their shapes and patterns familiar after many years, their weight a bittersweet solace now, when everything is so altered.

 

There is a knock at the door.

 

It is time.

 

He turns to look at it and feels a constriction around his heart, a heavy weight. But he takes a deep breath and moves. Makes himself. Even if a bigger part of him that he would care to admit, even now, when sorrow has darkened his days and regret shadows his waking hours, when he wishes that he could just lie down, close his eyes and then, upon opening them anew, it would be like it was, before. Yet it is not, never will be, and no wallowing will change what has already come to pass.

 

Bilbo walks to the door.

 

Fíli still looks strange in his kingly garments, the crown at his brow, his eyes set in their sadness, face too old for his years even if, underneath, he doesn’t look much older than when they had first met. ‘Are you ready?’ Fíli’s voice is gravel, hoarse from crying, yet steady.

 

‘As I'll ever be.’

 

Bilbo wonders how Fíli can bear it, bear the burden of kingship thrust upon his shoulders so unexpectedly, through still incomprehensible violence. The sleepless nights have left their mark on Bilbo’s nephew, and none will fault Fíli for his mourning. Bilbo needs to be strong for him, if for naught else.

 

Even if he lived to learn the braiding of mourning braids.


End file.
